


if i could do it all again (i know i'd go back to you)

by miladys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Gendry is a Baratheon, Lord and Lady of Storm's End, POV Arya Stark, Post-Canon, Unplanned Pregnancy, i know this idea has been done to death but, these two are the only ship i have left on this godforsaken show i WILL give them a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miladys/pseuds/miladys
Summary: Sometimes she thinks about the Hound. She’s so lonely she would actually welcome his company, relish in having someone there to call her a bitch or a stupid cunt. That day in King’s Landing, he’d told her to live.You think you’ve wanted revenge a long time? I’ve been after it all my life. It’s all I care about. And look at me. Look at me! You want to be like me? You come with me, you die here.She’d tried to heed his advice, tried to live by those words – but to live, she thought she had to run, run away from her trauma, run away from the place where she had lost so much. But in doing so, she’d run away from everyone who had ever loved her too. She wishes the Hound were here to tell her what to do now, because she fears she may have made the wrong decision, and it might be too late.---Arya decides to live, and there's one particular Baratheon she'd like to do it with.





	if i could do it all again (i know i'd go back to you)

**Author's Note:**

> I know this idea has probably been done to death but that series finale just made me feel some type of way. Arya and Gendry are the only ship of mine they haven't been completely sunk, so I wanted to write a better ending for them. The implicit time jump in the finale kind of complicates things, but let's just pretend this is possible, okay?

**i.**

She can’t say goodbye to Gendry.

She flees the council meeting without looking at him, because just the thought of his blue eyes makes her feel sick to her stomach. It just reminds her of the look in them back at Winterfell, when he’d asked her to be the Lady of Storm’s End, to be his wife, and she’d crushed his heart by refusing him.

The worst part of it is that it’s not like she doesn’t love him. Because oh gods, she does. She’s loved him since before she knew what that word meant, Arya knows, and once upon a time she would’ve followed him to the ends of the world if he asked.

But she doesn’t know how to be a lady, doesn’t know how to be a wife. And she sure as hell doesn’t know how to be a mother – doesn’t even know if she _can_ be, after how many knives she took to the belly – and every lord needs an heir. She knows that if she asked him to, Gendry would give it all up. _You’re beautiful and I love you and none of it will be worth anything if you’re not with me._ That was what he had said. She’s replayed the words in her mind many times since that night. 

Except Arya doesn’t want him to give it all up for her. Gendry will make a good lord. He’s kind and good and smart, even if he doesn’t think he is, and he’ll make this shit world a better place. He deserves a wife who can be a good lady, who can host balls and sew clothes and birth healthy sons, who will love him as he deserves to be loved, a wife who does not have the scars that she does, physically or emotionally.  

She doesn’t know how to let herself be loved. All she knows now is how to run, because everywhere she turns she sees a little girl clutching a white wooden horse in her chubby hands, sees men dragging their broken bodies across the ground as blood pours from their missing limbs, mothers lying dead in the street with their bodies mutilated. She can still hear the screams and smell the burning flesh and more often than not she wakes up in the middle of the night screaming, feeling like it’s happening all over again.

She can’t stay here. She has to go.

It’s Gendry who finds her in the end.

She’s packing up her things. Jon’s already gone to the Wall, Sansa is leaving for Winterfell in a few hours, and Bran is staying here, to be king. She hears his footsteps first, softly coming up the corridor, then stopping in her open doorway. “You weren’t going to say goodbye?”

She pauses from folding up a tunic and turns around. Gendry is leaning against her doorframe, hurt and confusion in his blue eyes. She can’t help but notice how handsome he looks today, in black and gold like a true Baratheon. Even now, as she’s preparing to leave him, she’s overcome by an overwhelming need to embrace him.

Instead, she swallows and forces herself to say: “Who told you? Sansa? Bran?”

“Ser Davos. It seems everyone around here knew you were leaving except for me.” He crosses the room to reach her now and grabs her by the wrist, causing her to let out a breathy gasp at his touch. “Gods, Arya. Why didn’t you say anything?”

She’d tried, she’d tried to talk to him many times. At Winterfell, before she went south, she’d thought of going to the forge to tell him where she was headed, but had backed out at the last minute. At the council meeting, she’d wanted to walk up to him after, to tell him that she needed to leave, to tell him that she loved him and she was sorry. In the days after, she’d thought of going to seek him out, to tell him goodbye. Only she couldn’t do it.

She can’t say goodbye to him, because no matter what, the two of them…they will never be truly over. What they have isn’t something that just _ends_.

She doesn’t say that though. “I think it’s best that we move on from each other.”

He recoils, as if she’s slapped him across the face. “I can’t _move on_ from you. Arya…I told you that I love you. That I wanted to marry you. Shouldn’t we talk about that? What that means? We used to be best friends.” He tilts her head upwards, forcing her to look at him. “Now you can’t even look me in the eye. When we were in that council you…you treated me like I was just some stranger. Is that really how little I mean to you? You can’t even say my name.”

She wets her lips. “Gendry.” She hopes he cannot hear how her voice falters over the last syllable.   

Her face is in his hands now and they are close, so close, closer than they’ve been since the night he proposed. She wants to kiss him. She can’t. “I am not ready to walk away from you, or from what we have. I know you don’t want to be a lady, I understand that. But…if you were my wife, I wouldn’t want you any way but exactly the way you are. When you love something or someone, it’s worth fighting for, yeah? And if the two of us are anything, we’re fighters. We can work through this. I know there’s something here between us.”

There is something there, something so complicated and messy and beautiful that she can’t even describe it, something that other people search the world for but never find. But Arya can’t imagine herself as anyone’s love or anyone’s wife, not even his. She’s very good at running, at fighting, at hurting. What she doesn’t know is how to let herself be loved. She doesn’t even know what that would feel like. “There’s nothing – ”

He doesn’t let her finish. “Look me in the eyes then. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love me too, and I swear I will never bother you again.”

So she looks into his eyes. They are so big and blue, like she could get lost in them. She’s always loved his eyes. “I can’t…I don’t…” She gulps, and lies. “I don’t love you.”

He drops his hands and backs away from her, and the look of pure hurt on his face is like a knife to her heart. “Thank you, m’lady.” He says, and when he says _m’lady_ , he says it with so much bitterness that it brings tears to her eyes. “That’s all I needed to hear.” He turns and flees the room, and she’s watches him leave hating herself just a little bit, but she’s too stubborn to take it back now.

She tells herself it is better this way. Someday he will be happy. He will find someone and have a family, a life she can’t give him. Someday, he will forget about her.

She has to believe that, because it’s the only thing she has to hold onto.

**ii.**

She misses him.

They’ve been at sea for a month, and so far all they’ve found is water, and a seemingly endless horizon. She can’t see Westeros in the distance anymore, nor can she see anything up ahead. The waters are rough, beating on the sides of the ship, and though Arya has never gotten seasick before, she finds herself emptying her stomach into the chamber pot more than once.

They’ve been at sea for a month, there is no land in sight, and she is lonely. She tries not to think about him, tries to keep her mind on the journey, but no matter how hard she tries her mind keeps wandering back to Gendry Baratheon. She wonders what he is doing now, if he’s learning to read, if he can finally hold a fork properly. Most of all, she wonders if he’s happy. She wonders if he thinks about her half as much as she thinks about him. She can’t deny it: she misses him.

One night she reaches under the blankets to touch herself, thinking of his face, and when she climaxes she has to bite down on the pillow to prevent herself from crying out. No matter how many miles stretch out between them, how many times she tells herself this is for the best, she still loves him.

Sometimes she thinks about the Hound. She’s so lonely she would actually welcome his company, relish in having someone there to call her a bitch or a stupid cunt. That day in King’s Landing, he’d told her to live. _You think you’ve wanted revenge a long time? I’ve been after it all my life. It’s all I care about. And look at me. Look at me! You want to be like me? You come with me, you die here._ She’d tried to heed his advice, tried to live by those words – but to live, she thought she had to run, run away from her trauma, run away from the place where she had lost so much. But in doing so, she’d run away from everyone who had ever loved her too. She wishes the Hound were here to tell her what to do now, because she fears she may have made the wrong decision, and it might be too late.

One particular morning a few weeks later, as she dresses she is startled to realize that she can’t fasten the button on her pants. She frowns and touches her stomach, slightly distended but hard, and wonders how she could possibly be gaining weight when she is barely able to keep any food down.

“Captain?” Bessa is the only other female in Arya’s crew, a hardened woman in her late twenties to early thirties. She lost a husband and two boys in King’s Landing, and came on this voyage to start a new life somewhere far away. She is running away from her grief, just as Arya is. “Are you all right? You look troubled.”

Arya opens her mouth to answer, to tell Bessa that she’s fine, but before she can get any words out her stomach twists, and she is suddenly bent over the chamber pot to vomit.

Bessa kneels down and holds her hair back as she pukes, gently patting Arya on the back. “Easy there, easy…”

She is sick until there is nothing left in her stomach and for a few moments longer she pants over the chamber pot, still feeling nauseous even though there is nothing left for her to throw up. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

When she looks up, Bessa is staring at her, looking thoughtful. “You’ve been getting sick quite often.”

Arya frowns. “Well, _yes_ , but it’s just the rough seas…”

“I think we both know it’s more than that.” Bessa pauses. It’s unusual for her to be hesitant, as she’s never shied away from speaking her mind before. “Tell me…have you lain with a man recently?”

“I don’t know what that has to do with – ” Arya starts to object, but then Bessa nods at her stomach, and suddenly Arya cuts herself off mid-breath. She realizes she has not bled in months. “No. It’s…it’s not possible.”

“So you’re a virgin then?”

“No – ”

“Then it _is_ possible.” Bessa insists. “Your breasts are swollen. The smell of fish makes you look ill. Your pants don’t fit. This is more than seasickness.”

Too shocked to speak, Arya traces the scars on her abdomen with her finger. She had genuinely believed she could not have a child, only now…She reaches under her tunic to touch her stomach, just beginning to swell. There is no other explanation. “I’m pregnant.” The words feel foreign in her mouth, and until now, she never expected to ever speak them. The thought of a babe growing inside her – a little _person_ , with fingers and toes and hair and nails and a beating heart – is so strange, but almost instinctively the hand against her belly presses tighter against it. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

Bessa nods. “Do you have any idea how far along you might be?”

She and Gendry had only laid together that one time at Winterfell, the night before the battle against the dead. She did not drink any moon tea, and why would she have? She’d been expecting to die the next day. So that meant she was…“Four moonturns.” She feels stupid for not having realized sooner, but her blood has been irregular since she was stabbed, so she had never considered the possibility.

Again, Bessa nods. “I won’t tell another soul.” She promises, squeezing Arya’s shoulder. “And I don’t want to spring this on you, but do you know what you want to do? I’m guessing this was not in your plan. I know it’s a lot to take in, but…I can brew some tea for you, if you don’t want to keep it. It will have to be soon though, because if we wait much longer, you will be too far gone for it to work.”  

“I…” Arya starts to say, but then she trails off. Think, she needs to think.

Again, she touches her scars. She’d been stabbed multiple times near her womb. She’d fought against an army of dead men at Winterfell and stabbed the Night King in the chest, but only after he’d nearly choked her to death. After that she’d ridden south and narrowly escaped the massacre at King’s Landing with her life, after being smacked by debris, bleeding profusely, and nearly being burnt alive by dragonfire. And to think, throughout that whole battle, she had been with child, even if she hadn’t known it at the time.

By all accounts, this babe should be dead already.

But yet here it is, quickening in her womb, so real and so fiercely _alive_. He or she must be a survivor already – her little wolf pup, she thinks, because even if its father is a stag, it is her child too. She is surprised by the powerful wave of protectiveness that washes over her. _Pack._ Arya thinks to herself. _My child, my pup, my pack._ She knows, with absolute certainty, she cannot get rid of it. This child is still alive despite it all, and she believes it must be for a reason.

She looks back up at Bessa, meeting her eyes. “I’m keeping it.”

Bessa nods, and does not question her. “Then I am happy for you. But the seas are no place to bring a child into the world. It is too unpredictable, and though I’ve had two babes, I don’t know enough about healing to help you if something goes wrong. Should I tell Quellon to look for a port?”

For a long moment, Arya says nothing. They could find a port and stay there, so she could give birth on dry land, and then they could resume their journey when the child was strong enough. But, stroking her belly, she knows she cannot do that. This child does not deserve to grow up on a ship, headed into an uncertain future, searching for a land they might never find. No, this child deserves to grow up surrounded by family, a family bigger than just Arya. She wants her child to sit on Bran’s lap and listen to stories, to cuddle their aunt Sansa, to go walking with Jon along the Wall.

And most of all, she wants this child to know their father’s love.

Tears rush to her eyes at the thought of him, and she feels like a fool. _Why did I ever think this was a good idea?_ She wonders. _I don’t belong here._ No, she belongs with Gendry, the man who loves her, the father of her unborn babe. She suddenly aches for his touch, and wishes more than anything that he could be there to wrap his arms around her, so she could hear him tell her that everything would be all right, that they could be a family just as she’d wanted when she was a girl.

A bad thought comes to her, and she suddenly hopes that he still loves her after all the awful things she’s said, that he’ll take her back. _Oh please, please. Don’t let there be someone else…_ Because if she’s screwed her child out of its chance to have a family, just because she was too stupid and afraid to tell Gendry she loves him back, she will never forgive herself. She doesn’t care if she has to be lonely, but she will not do that to her baby.

Again, she thinks of the Hound’s words. _You want to be like me?_

No, she doesn’t.

Arya stands up and looks to Bessa, determination in her eyes. “Tell Quellon to turn the ship around.” She commands with authority. “We’re going back to Westeros. I’m going home.”

**iii.**

She rides to Storm’s End on a white horse.

After their ship docks, she buys the first horse she can find and rides down the Kingsroad, towards Storm’s End, towards the love of her life. She rides for as many hours a day as she can and rests at nighttime, the added stress of travelling while pregnant making her weary. She may have been oblivious to her condition for the first four months, but there is no denying it now. Her morning sickness has passed, but her breasts hurt like hell, she has to piss constantly, and her back is sore after a day in the saddle. She stops at an inn and luckily finds a woman who is willing to let her pants out for her. The woman touches her belly, asking how far along she is. Arya forces a smile and tells her she’s almost five months, and when the woman asks about her husband, Arya tells her that he died in the destruction of King’s Landing. It’s easier than telling her the whole complicated story, and the woman gives her a look of pity and says she will pray to the Mother for her health and the health of her child.

When she arrives at the gates of Storm’s End, there are guards there waiting. “I’m Arya Stark, I’m here to see Lord Gendry Baratheon.”

The two guards look at her for a long second, then laugh. “Arya Stark, the Savior of Westeros? Yeah, right. And I’m the king!”

She narrows her eyes. “I am Arya Stark, and the king is my brother. I know Lord Baratheon, and I can guarantee that he’ll want to see me. If he finds out that you sent me away – ”

One of the guards snorts. “Listen, piss off you little – ”

“Princess Arya?” The two guards both look shocked as Ser Davos appears, walking up to the gate to address her. She’s still not used to being called a princess, though now that Bran is King of the Six Kingdoms and Sansa is Queen in the North, she supposes she is one. Twice over, in fact. 

She knows she must look different. Her hair has grown out to past her shoulders now, the ends horribly dry and split, and her face is rounder from the weight she’s gained so far this pregnancy. She keeps her cloak wrapped around her to cover her belly, fiercely swollen now that she is in her fifth moonturn. She knows it will be impossible to hide for long, but she needs to tell Gendry first. It is his child she is carrying – he should be the first to know.

And gods, she hopes and prays that he hasn’t found someone else. She suppose she can’t blame him if he has, not after how she left him in King’s Landing three months ago, saying things she didn’t mean just to push him away. She knows that Gendry deserves some beautiful highborn wife, who will be a good lady for Storm’s End and give him many strong sons, but the thought of living a life without him, of a life where her babe will never get to know its father, makes her feel like she might throw up.

She holds her head high, trying to seem calm. “I’m here to see Gendry. Can you let me in?”

Ser Davos looks at the guards. “You heard the princess! And one of you take her horse!” The two men scramble with murmurs of “yes, ser” and Arya notices that they are extra nice to her now as they escort her horse to the stables.

She looks around the courtyard. The castle of Storm’s End has only one colossal tower, like a fist pushing up into the sky, and the yard is buzzing with activity. Grooms are taking care of the horses in the stables, cooks are carrying trays of bread from the kitchens to the castle, and smiths are working away in the forge. She glances inside, wondering if perhaps she might catch a glimpse of Gendry, but he is nowhere to be found.

Ser Davos comes to her side. “You showed up during the only time he hasn’t been in that forge all week.” He says. “I told him he doesn’t have to smith anymore, now that he’s a lord, but he doesn’t listen to me.”

A smile comes to Arya’s face. “He’s always been bullheaded.”

Ser Davos stares at her, not saying anything at first. “I didn’t think you’d be coming back, m’lady.”

“…I didn’t think I would be either.”

“So why did you?”

She doesn’t even know how to begin to answer that question. _Because I love Gendry. Because I’m pregnant with his child. Because I’m an idiot for going away in the first place._ “Things have changed.” She finally settles on.

She swears Davos smiles. “I’m glad.”

She stops in her tracks when she sees three pretty women emerge from Storm’s End’s tower. One is tall, one is short, and one is somewhere in the middle. One looks to be in her early twenties, one about Arya’s age, the other slightly younger. The first has a full head of red curls and fine high cheekbones, her plentiful bosom on display in her blue gown. The second is a brunette in a green dress, with an upturned nose and a long face. But the third is by far the most beautiful in Arya’s opinion – she is about sixteen or seventeen years old, though her black dress makes her look mature for her age, and she is slim with a long neck and fine complexion, long blonde hair flowing halfway down her back. When she sees Arya, she smiles at her but quickly turns her head, paying her no mind. And why should she? She’s a beautiful girl, and Arya probably looks like a dirty peasant, filthy and haggard from her time on the road.

Ser Davos sees her staring. “Lord Penrose’s daughter, Lord Estermont’s granddaughter, and Lord Rogers’s niece. Almost every lord and knight in the Stormlands has been here in the last three moonturns, parading the young women in their family around like they’re cattle. Every man wants his girl to be the Lady of Storm’s End.”

Arya feels so foolish. They’re all beautiful, so much more beautiful than she will ever be, and after how they left things she can’t blame Gendry for trying to find someone else. This is no one’s fault but her own. “Is he engaged?”

Ser Davos gives her a look. “Pardon?”

“Gendry – is he engaged?”

But Ser Davos only laughs. “Oh no. I told him he will need an heir eventually, but he won’t even hear talk of it.”

There it is: hope. “Really?”

“Really. I thought perhaps he might take a mistress, at least. After all, King Robert had many lovers, even while your aunt Lyanna was still alive. But m’lord is completely unreceptive to all their advances.” Ser Davos glances at her. “I believe you’ve ruined all other women for him.”

Arya can feel her face grow hot. “Gendry told you about us?”

The older man shakes his head. “He didn’t have to. I figured it out.” He nods towards the tower. “He’s in his solar. I think he will be happy to see you.”

Her stomach is in knots her entire walk up the staircase. She is glad to hear he is not married or promised to anyone, but a new fear settles in. King Robert had been a fine young man once too, and the years turned him cold, voracious, and bitter. What if in her attempt to spare him she had actually broken him? What if she’s broken his heart so fully that it is now beyond repair? What if he wants nothing to do with her, can only look at her with pain and loathing in his eyes now? She can’t decide if that would be better or worse than him being engaged.  

When she opens the door, she nearly loses her breath when she sees him standing by the window, his back to her. “What is it, Ser Davos?”

She gulps. “…It’s not Ser Davos.”

Gendry turns around.

His hair is growing out again and he’s dressed in nicer clothes, a studded leather jerkin and new brown pants – it makes her imagine this must be what his father looked like in his youth, before a Stark girl broke his heart, just like she’s broken his. But despite all that, his blue eyes still light up when he sees her, and there he is, the same man she’s always adored. She is overcome with relief, knowing she has not lost him.

They stare at each other for a long second, neither of them speaking. “…Hello.” She says.

“Hello.” Gendry repeats, and he looks like he’s still trying to process, like he can’t believe she’s really here. “I thought…I thought you were gone.”

“I was.” And gods she smiles, genuinely smiles for the first time in she doesn’t know how long. “You asked me to come to Storm’s End. Took the long road, but…”

Gendry looks at her for a long moment, and then he laughs, and Arya laughs too. He crosses the room to embrace her and she hugs him back. She’s missed the feeling of his arms around her and even though he’s a lord now he still smells like a forge. She burrows her face into his chest and inhales. _Home._

But then suddenly Gendry pulls back and the joy that was on his face a moment ago is gone, replaced by bewilderment, realization, and then shock. “You’re…are you…?”

She’d been so caught up in the moment that she hadn’t even stopped to think. She’d spent half her trip here trying to think of the best way to tell him, and now she’s ruined it. Silently, she opens her cloak to reveal the unmistakable swell of her belly, and she thinks that Gendry has stopped breathing as he stares at it. “I am.”  

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Arya wonders if she should get him a chair before he faints. “How long have you known?”

“About a month.”

Gendry doesn’t say anything for several moments and then he pulls away, reaching for the door. “I’m getting you dinner.”

That’s the next thing out of his mouth? “I’m not hungry.” Arya insists.

But Gendry’s blue eyes blaze with a characteristically Baratheon stubbornness. “I don’t care. You’re _pregnant_ Arya, you’re going to eat and then you’re going to rest, whether you like it or not.”  

She does not fight him any further. She sits down at the table in his solar while Gendry remains standing, pacing the room. A serving girl brings her all kinds of food, anything she could possibly be craving – a haunch of venison, a slice of lamprey pie, crisp apples and succulent plums, turnips soaked in butter, little glazed strawberry tarts – and when it’s all placed before her, her stomach rumbles. Arya does not know if she has ever been so happy to eat.

Gendry doesn’t sit down and doesn’t eat anything, just watches her stuff her face in silence. “Still don’t know how to use a fork?” She jokes. 

Gendry doesn’t seem to hear her. When Arya looks at him, she sees that his gaze is trained on her middle. “Is it…” He starts to ask, struggling to find the words. “Is it mine?”

Arya laughs before she can stop herself, and luckily she does not choke on her plum. “Don’t insult me. Who else’s would it be, stupid?”

Gendry frowns. “I don’t know, Arya! You left for three months. I didn’t know where you were, you could’ve been dead for all I knew! After you left me in King’s Landing, I didn’t think I meant anything to you!”

She swallows, and her food tastes dry on the way down. The thought of her sleeping with anyone else is so strange to her, so foreign that it’s almost funny, but she can’t blame him for being mad at her. She said hurtful things to him the last time they saw each other. “…You always meant something to me.”

For a long moment, they just stare at each other in silence, until finally Gendry speaks again. “Would…would you have come back? If it weren’t for the babe?”

Her dinner forgotten, Arya sighs and looks down at her belly, a hand falling to cradle it. She answers honestly. “…No.”

Gendry looks away, but Arya sees that he is crestfallen, even if he’s trying to hide it. “Oh.” He wanted her, but not like this.

But Arya isn’t done. She crosses the room to stand in front of him and places her hands on Gendry’s cheeks, tilting his head up. “Look at me.” This time there is no teasing in her voice. “I wouldn’t take any of it back, you know? When I found out I was pregnant, they asked me if I wanted to….to get rid of it. I said no.”

Gendry looks up at her. “Why did you?”

“The babe just…changed my perspective on a lot of things. I never thought of myself as anyone’s wife or anyone’s mother, but once I found out…I knew I couldn’t imagine my life any differently than this. You know me – I couldn’t care less if my child is born a bastard or not. What people say doesn’t matter to me. That’s not why I came back. When you asked me to marry you, I said no not because I didn’t love you, because I do. I was scared, and I was running away. Finding out I’m pregnant made me realize that I couldn’t run away anymore. I’ve been doing it for years and I’m tired of it. And I wouldn’t change anything that’s happened between us, because I needed this babe to give me the strength to come back, to come back to you.” There are tears in her eyes before she can stop them. “I love you, and I want us to be a family.”

She has barely gotten the words out when Gendry closes the distance between their lips, and instantly she’s kissing him back desperately, like coming up for air after drowning. Her hands get tangled in his hair and he pulls her as close to him as physically possible. She’s missed this: the warmth of his body, the feeling of his lips. She can’t believe there was ever a time when she was willing to walk away from this.

They only pull apart when they need air, both of them breathing heavily, and Gendry presses his forehead against hers. His hand is quivering as it comes to rest on her belly, and his touch is gentle and warm. “A child.” He whispers, and Arya can hear the tears threatening to spill over.

She is crying too now as she places her hand on top of his, squeezing gently. “Our child.” She corrects. “Yours and mine…”

Gendry’s smile in that instance is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen in her life. “I love you, Arya.”

“I love you too, Gendry.” She smiles up at him and kisses him again, softer and slower. “You know I’m never going to be a traditional lady. I’m terrible at knitting, I hate dresses, and I’m not going to watch my tongue…”

He chuckles at that. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

“But…” Arya sighs. “Does your offer still stand? Do you still want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

In reply, he cups her cheek with his free hand and brings her lips to his, the other hand remaining pressed against her belly, where their child grows inside her. “I love you with all of my heart, Arya Stark. Nothing else in this world matters to me but you and our babe, and it would be an _honor_ to be your husband, and the father of our children. So, will you be my wife? Will you be my family?”

She smiles. She does not know if she will ever stop. “Yes.”

**iv.**

They fall back together.

That night, their clothes are shed as they reacquaint themselves with one another. They both have more scars than they did the last time – Arya on her forehead, Gendry on his shoulder – but they don’t speak of them, choosing to focus on life instead of death. Her body is more sensitive now, her breasts fuller and heavier, her belly cumbersome, but his lips trace a path from her face to her neck, her collarbone to her belly, and when his mouth settles between her legs she comes almost instantly, her hands gripping the bedpost to steady herself.

He whispers her name against her skin as he enters her and she grabs onto him, driving him in deeper, desperate to feel him inside of her again. “Arya, Arya, Arya.”

She says his name too, like a promise, and this time they come together as thunder sounds from outside of Storm’s End’s walls.

Afterwards they lie in bed, facing each other, Gendry brushing her hair out of her face as they stare into each other’s eyes. One of his hands runs across her stomach, his thumb rubbing circles over her navel. “I think it will be a boy.” She says abruptly, not even realizing how strongly she felt about the sentiment until the words are already out of her mouth.  

He hmms to himself and kisses her on the neck. “I don’t know, I think I want a girl. A little Arya…”

She laughs quietly and runs her hands through his hair. “That would be all right too.” She concedes, imagining what it would be like to have a little girl she can teach to ride horses or shoot a bow. But something deep within in her – mother’s intuition perhaps, if you believe in that sort of thing – tells her the child in her womb will be male, and she pictures in her mind a perfect black-haired, blue-eyed son, a little Baratheon boy. No matter what it is, boy or girl, she will love this child very well. It is strange to think that just three months ago she thought she did not have it in her to be a mother, when now her child has not even been born yet and she already knows without question that she would do anything for it.

She doesn’t have any clothes that fit her expanding stomach except for those she arrived in, so the next morning she dresses herself in a tunic of Gendry’s that would ordinarily be too big for her, but now is tight in places it shouldn’t be and rides shorter on her than it does on him. While Gendry goes to tell the cooks to prepare breakfast for two, and to tell Ser Davos their counts of happy news, she begins writing letters. One postmarked for Winterfell. Another for King’s Landing. The last, for the Wall.

She does not write much, not really knowing what to say. She simply tells her sister and brothers that she’s returned to Westeros, she and Gendry are expecting a child in four months’ time, and that they are planning to be wed as soon as her siblings can make the trip to Storm’s End. It does not matter to Arya if her child is born a bastard – she does not care what anyone has to say about it, and she will love her babe regardless if they are legitimate or not – but she knows that Gendry grew up with that burden, that stigma, and he wants better for their child. It’s important to him, and he’s important to her, so as soon as Sansa and Bran can get here, they’ll wed.

She sends the ravens off and hopes that Jon will be able to return from the Wall for her wedding. She loves Gendry, and she loves Sansa and Bran, but getting married won’t feel right if her favorite brother is not there. Once the birds have taken flight, she climbs back into bed besides her betrothed, and helps herself to all the strawberries that she can possibly eat. The babe seems to have a taste for them.

The carriages arrive within the fortnight. Sansa’s Tully blue eyes are wide as can be when she takes in her sister, pregnant belly on full display, and she pulls Arya in for a hug. “You have a lot of explaining to do.” Sansa says, and Arya laughs into her sister’s neck.

They pull apart and Sansa stares down at her belly in disbelief, shaking her head. “It’s a long story.” Arya says. Because really, to tell it properly, she would have to go all the way back to that fateful day in King’s Landing, when a boy with a bull’s head helmet stepped in to defend her…

“We have time.” Sansa looks up to meet Arya’s eyes, biting her lip. “But first of all…are you happy?”

Arya smiles. “I am.” She answers honestly, and at her words a smile comes to Sansa’s face too. For now, this is enough.

Bran arrives with a light entourage, and as he is wheeled towards Arya, he does not look at all fazed by her new appearance. “You knew.” It’s not a question the way she says it.

“I did.”

“For how long?”

Her brother smiles. “Since the day you left Winterfell.”

This news surprises her. That was months before Arya knew herself. “Why didn’t you say anything when I left King’s Landing? You could’ve stopped me.”

Bran just shakes his head. “Because, you needed to make the choice for yourself. I am glad you made the right one.”

But the biggest surprise comes that evening, when a rider in black arrives at the gates of Storm’s End, a large white wolf running alongside. Arya rushes out to meet him and practically throws herself into Jon’s arms as soon as he disembarks from his horse.

“You came.” She says breathlessly, and Jon laughs and kisses her head as his arms wrap around her too.

“Of course I came. You only get to see your little sister get married once, don’t you?” Arya smiles at his words – because even if blood says they are only cousins, he will always be a brother to her, no matter what – and Jon pulls back to look at her, letting out a low whistle as he takes in her swollen abdomen. “Seven hells.” He says, touching her belly gently as if he’s afraid he might break her. “I suppose it is true what they say about Baratheons: the seed _is_ strong.”

“Oh, shut up.” Arya rolls her eyes and they both laugh, but she can’t help but notice the melancholy lurking behind Jon’s grey eyes despite it. “I’m sorry.” She whispers to him, a lump rising in her throat. “I…I did not want to be right about her.”

Her brother has to look away for a moment, and she can see the tears glimmering in the corners of his eyes. “Well, at least Sansa hasn’t gloated. I thought she was going to be insufferable.”

“There’s still time.” Arya says, and they laugh again, but this time it is hollow. She has one more question she needs to ask her brother. “Did you love her?”

Slowly, Jon nods. “Aye, I did – once.”

“I’m sorry.” Maybe the Dragon Queen had not made a good impression with her, but Jon had loved her, and she would’ve gladly been wrong if it meant Jon could have his happiness. She hopes that someday he may be happy again. He deserves that.

“Me too.” Wearily, Jon smiles at her, and he runs his thumb across her cheek. “But enough about that. Today is a happy day for you, little sister.”

Sansa assures her that the official records will say Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon were wed at Winterfell after the Battle for the Dawn, their child conceived in holy wedlock, and no one but them shall be none the wiser. In truth, they meet that night in the godswood of Storm’s End, after everyone else in the castle is asleep. She is escorted by Jon, her arm weaved through his, and she eschews a dress in favor of a white silk tunic, white woolen pants, and a pair of shiny black boots. Sansa and Bran are waiting under the heart tree, Sansa already crying, while Gendry stands front and center. He’s wearing the colors of his house, a black velvet doublet slashed with gold satin, and he smiles when he sees her.

“Who comes?” Ser Davos says. Since Gendry has no blood relatives living, the old man stands in, the closest thing he has to a father in this life. “Who comes before the old gods on this night?”

“Arya of House Stark,” Jon replies. “Comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Gendry steps forward. “I do: Gendry of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. I claim her. Who gives her?”

This is the part where Jon should announce himself, but Arya clears her throat instead. “I give myself.” Because this is not an arranged marriage, she is not a possession being dowered to forge an alliance, this is a marriage built on the love they have for each other and the future they want to have together.

And when she places her hand in Gendry’s, she willingly and lovingly gives herself to him, knowing that he gives himself to her in return.

**v.**

Her family stays for the rest of the week. Arya has missed them. She walks with Jon and Ghost along the shoreline – the wolf wades into the ocean and shakes the water off his fur, soaking them both – and though she wants Jon to spar with her, her brother refuses given her condition. She sits in the godswood with Bran, enjoying their silent contemplation, and when Sansa shyly presents her with a pair of yellow booties she’s knitted for the forthcoming babe, tears fill Arya’s eyes at the sweet gift and she thanks Sansa profusely. Arya’s never been good at sewing, but it touches her knowing that her child will having something made for him or her with love.

When it’s time for them to leave, the sisters exchange a tearful goodbye, Sansa reminding her to please write, and even though Arya is not a good letter writer, she promises she will. When she hugs Jon, she tells him that she’ll have to visit him at the Wall after she has the babe, because she still wants that sparring session. Her brother laughs and agrees.

Finally, she comes to Bran, and his eyes flick to her belly. “Perhaps you can come to King’s Landing after the birth. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

Beside her, Gendry’s breath hitches, and Arya’s eyes widen at one particular word her brother uses. “Did you just say... _him_?”

Bran smiles. “Sorry – did you want it to be a surprise?”

Arya watches the carriages disappear from view, but Gendry only watches her. When she turns back to him, she notices the tears in his eyes, and she is suddenly worried that she has disappointed him. “Did you want a girl that badly?”

But her husband only laughs and shakes his head, and his hands are warm as they come to rest on her belly. “No – not at all. I’m...I’m happy that he’s a boy. And we will love him very well.”

Before she can stop it her eyes are glistening with tears. Being with child has made her so emotional, it’s ridiculous. Her hands come to rest on top of Gendry’s, and she smiles. “Our son.” She says. “I love him so much already.” She knows that will surely only grow once she holds their son – _their son_ – in her arms for the first time, and she can’t imagine how her heart will be able to hold that much love.

Gendry embraces her, his lips pressing against the top of her head, and she burrows further into his arms. “Our son.” He repeats, his voice laced with awe, and she fears her heart may burst.

**vi.**

Not for the first time, she wishes that her mother were still alive.

Then she would have someone to talk to about pregnancy. It’s a rewarding experience – the first time she feels her son kick in her womb, it’s enough to make her start sobbing, and Gendry looks at her with such pure happiness, his hands never straying far from her belly thereafter – but it’s also uncomfortable, and exhausting, and terrifying. Luckily, she has Ser Davos’s wife, and Lady Marya is always willing to answer her questions about pregnancy and child rearing honestly, and Arya finds herself going to the woman more and more as her belly continues to grow. Still, no matter how helpful Lady Seaworth is, she is not Arya’s mother.

The lords of the Stormlands seem to think she is quite strange at first, Lord Baratheon’s strong-willed northern wife. She sits in a chair beside Gendry at meetings, even as she grows great with child, and she’s not shy about sharing her opinions, whether they’re discussing the economy, politics or the poor. Once, when some lordling or other suggests that perhaps her time would be better spent on more womanly concerns, Arya opens her mouth to reprimand him but Gendry beats her to it, reminding the man that his wife is the one who saved them all from the Long Night, and anyone who dares to speak down to her will be asked to leave. Arya loves him for that. After that, the lords don’t question her again, and she swears that some of them even start to like her. She can’t spar, but she still practices archery almost daily, and she rides horses quite frequently until her stomach gets too large for it to be comfortable anymore. The people of the nearby villages come to expect Lady Baratheon’s visits. _That’s her._ Children whisper to each other as she passes. _That’s Arya Stark, the Savior of Westeros._  

The nightmares still come. Without warning she will dream of King’s Landing the day that it burned, of the smoke and ash in the air choking her, of the bodies she climbed over in the streets. Except now sometimes she dreams that among those dead bodies is her own little baby, her black-haired son that she was supposed to protect and failed, and on those nights she wakes up sobbing.

Luckily Gendry is there besides her, and when she cries he holds her and assures her that everything’s all right, that their child is safe and she’ll be a good mother. She feels stupid, being afraid of something as normal as motherhood when she’s survived multiple near death experiences, killed the Night King, and emerged from the massacre of King’s Landing with her life. But she’s seen so much death in the world and she fears more than anything that she won’t be able to protect her son, won’t be able to protect her pack, and what will she tell him someday when he asks her why his mother has so many scars, why she still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming? How will she be able to look him in the eye and tell him about the people she killed on her quest for vengeance, her quest which could’ve easily cost him his life before he was even born, if the Hound had not stopped her?

Gendry is the only person who can talk her down from those fears and soothe her back to sleep. He will make a good father, she knows. She’s always thought he would. One night, she awakens – from a dreamless sleep, thank the gods – to find that he’s up too, nestled against her belly and whispering to the babe, who kicks and punches at the sound of his father’s voice.

“Calm down, little man. You’ll wake up your mum.” Arya does not tell him that she’s already awake and keeps her eyes closed, wanting to hear what he’ll say. “She’s one of the good ones, your mum. She’s brave, and kind, and beautiful, and smart – and she’d do absolutely anything for you. You don’t know how lucky you are to have her as your mother. She can’t wait to meet you, neither of us can…” He trails off and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I have to admit…it scares me a little bit, the idea of being a father. I never knew my father, and after I found out about you, I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to give you the life you deserve. How can I raise a child when I never had a father in my life? But when I start thinking like that, I just think about your mum, and what an amazing mother she’s going to be. Being with her…I don’t know, it just makes me feel like I can do anything. We’re going to try our best to do right by you, I swear – and I know that we might make mistakes sometimes, but no matter what happens, we are always going to love you, our little boy. We’re going to love you more than anything else in the world…”

She doesn’t care if Gendry knows that she’s been listening, as she reaches out to gently stroke his hair. He looks up at her sheepishly. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it.” Since she’d returned to him he’d been so calm, so assured, that she had not realized he had fears like she did. She’d never considered that Gendry would be anything less than an amazing father, and hearing the way he talks about her makes her feel like they can overcome their fears together. “You’re going to be a wonderful father. I love you.”

Through the dark, she can see him smile. “I love you too, m’lady.”

Her water breaks on a clouded morning, in the middle of the council chamber. Immediately Maester Jurne whisks her away to the lord’s chamber with a pair of midwives who help her into the birthing bed. The pain is intense, and increasing in strength and duration with each hour she labors. Jurne gives her some herbs for the pain, but they do little to dull the ache. It is without a doubt the worst she’s ever endured, even worse than being stabbed – labor is like being stabbed over and over again, repeatedly for hours. She screams for Gendry, but the birthing room is no place for husbands, the midwives remind her, so Arya squeezes their hands and curses them out instead. The women do not complain though, brushing her sweaty hair out of her face, like they’ve seen this all before.

After nearly a day of horrible pain, she’s finally ready to push. Maester Jurne coaches her through it while the midwives hold her hands. “You’re doing wonderfully, m’lady.” The maester assures her. “Just a few more, you’re almost done…”

Finally, a day after her labor began, the maester pulls her baby from her body and she hears the sound of its strong cry, indicative of life, and Arya begins to cry with him.

“Well done, m’lady.” The maester says, smiling. “You have a healthy baby boy.”

The babe is placed on her chest, skin still covered in blood, black hair matted to its head, face scrunched up as it wails, but Arya has never fallen in love so quickly. She kisses her son’s nose and cheeks, counts ten fingers and ten toes, and rocks him in her arms until his crying ceases. He looks just like his father, but when he opens his eyes, they are stormy grey just like hers. “Hello, my darling boy…” She whispers to him, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. “I’m your mother. I love you, my pup.” The babe seems so small to her, but Maester Jurne tells her he is actually a large, lusty lad, a Baratheon boy through and through. Against all odds, he is here, and he is healthy. He is truly a miracle.  

By the time Gendry is finally allowed to come in, Arya is sitting up in bed, the boy cleaned up and wrapped in a yellow blanket, and suckling happily at her breast. She knows that decorum dictates she should use a wet nurse, but she has never cared much for decorum. This is _her_ child, _her_ pup, _her_ pack, and she does not want to see him nursing at another woman’s breast. She is his mother, and she will care for him. That’s what family does.

When she looks up to meet Gendry’s gaze, she finds him staring at them both with a look of pure adoration on his face, and she fills with pride, knowing how happy she’s made him. “Would you like to hold your son?”

Glee lights up his eyes. “More than anything.”

In her arms the boy stirs, having finished feeding. “Come, then. Our son is ready to meet his father.”

Gendry sits next to her on the bed and takes the boy carefully into his arms. Their son reaches out his tiny hand and wraps it around Gendry’s finger, and her husband grins. “Oh _Arya_ ,” He whispers, awestruck, not looking up from their son’s face as he speaks to her. “He is so beautiful.”

“He’s perfect.” She agrees, leaning over to rest her head on Gendry’s shoulder as they continue to stare at their child, this life their love has made. Looking at her boy, Arya thinks she would not change a single thing about him. “Can you believe we made him on top of the grain stores at Winterfell?”

Gendry laughs, and kisses her. “I love you so much, Arya. Thank you for coming back to me, and for giving me him. I can’t even begin to tell you how happy you’ve made me.”

“Oh Gen, you’ve made me so happy too.” Their son gurgles and Arya smiles down at him contentedly. “My boys…”

Over these past four months they’ve struggled with what to call him. Gendry had suggested Eddard, after her beloved father, but it just had not felt right to her. As much as she’d loved him, she did not want to think about her father and his horrible death every time she looked at her child’s innocent face. She’d suggested Robert, but Gendry told her it didn’t seem right to name their son after someone who had never been a father to him. They’d considered other family names from both sides – Robb, Rickon, Brandon, Benjen, Renly, Rickard – and dismissed each in turn, for one reason or another.

Suddenly, she knows. “Gendry? Let’s call him Sandor.” It is an unusual request, especially considering how her acquaintance with the man they called the Hound began. But it was Sandor Clegane who encouraged her to pursue life instead of death, who may have saved her unborn child’s life when he convinced her not to kill Cersei, and whose words had inspired her to return to Storm’s End after finding out she was pregnant. She also can’t help but think that if the Hound could see her now, he would probably roll his eyes and curse at her for trying to name her baby after him, and if anything that only makes her more steadfast in her resolve.

She expects Gendry to question her decision, to fight her on it, but her husband only looks up to meet her eyes, and smiles. “Well,” He says. “Sandor it is then.” Arya grins, and kisses him. And so, the boy is named Sandor.

Sandor Baratheon.

Their son.

Their miracle.

**vii.**

Their son grows into a kind, smart, happy little boy. He is walking before his first nameday, and Arya holds his chubby little hands as he takes his first steps in Storm’s End’s halls, falling into Gendry’s arms as both his parents shower him with kisses. They argue over what his first word should be: he tries to coax the boy to say “Papa”, while she pushes him towards “Mama”, but in the end it is neither. Sandor’s first word is “wolf”, after Ser Davos carves him a toy one out of wood, and they have a good laugh, for if there was ever any doubt that he was Arya Stark’s son, it is gone now. “Mama” and “Papa” come not long after. By the time he is old enough to learn how to read, Gendry has progressed enough in his own studies that he volunteers to teach him, showing little Sandor all of his letters and numbers, and Maester Jurne says that at the age of four he is reading better than most six or seven year olds. When the boy expresses interest in learning how to hold a sword, Arya teaches him that, and the hours they spend together in the training yard are always the best of her day. Often Sandor tires himself out so much by the end that Arya will have to pick him up and carry him inside, his head lolling against her shoulder. It is moments like these that bring her so much joy, that make her thank all the old gods and the new that she was given this opportunity to have a life with her family.

And the family grows. Arya grew up surrounded by siblings to play with, and that is something she wants for her son too. So when Sandor is two, they give him a little sister. From the beginning, Lyarra is all Baratheon. She is born on a stormy night and enters the world with a strong wail, a head full of black hair and eyes as blue as the seas outside of Storm’s End. She is a strong-willed, fearless girl, determined to go after what she wants no matter the cost, and from the moment she is born she has Gendry wrapped around her little finger. He nicknames her Arry, and indulges her every whim.

They take a trip to Braavos when Sandor is four and Lyarra is two, leaving the children in the care of the Seaworths for three weeks while they go to celebrate the fifth anniversary of their reunion. In Braavos they go exploring through the old streets, watch the water dancers perform, and make love in their oceanside room at the inn while rain pours down outside, and it is there that Arya suspects their third child is conceived. Sandor is five by the time their new girl is born. Her eyes are Baratheon blue like her father’s and her sister’s, but her auburn hair is a shock to them all, a sign of the Tully blood that runs through her veins. Since Lyarra was named for Arya’s grandmother, this one they name for Gendry’s, and little Cassana proves to be as fiery as her hair. She may have the Baratheon eyes and the Tully locks, but she has the blood of the wolf, just like a Stark.

Their last child is not born until much later. Sandor is ten, Lyarra is eight, Cassana five. She’d thought that she was done having children, but Gendry’s Baratheon fertility seems to have other ideas, and when her healthy boy is placed in her arms, Arya knows that her family is finally complete. Their youngest has Arya’s hair and eyes, and they call him Matthos, for Davos’s son. When the old man who has been like a father to Gendry holds the boy for the first time and hears his name, it brings tears to his eyes. 

Her children are unusually well-traveled for their ages. They go to Winterfell once a year to visit Sansa, to play in the snow and run through the halls of Arya’s childhood home, and it never ceases to warm her heart as she watches her babes in the place where she grew up. Sansa loves to have them, as she has no husband or children of her own, having chosen to be married to the North rather than any man. They visit Jon at the Wall when Sandor and Cassie are babes, and again when she is pregnant with Matthos – Ghost has mated with another direwolf beyond the Wall, and when he returns home carrying four pups, there is one for each of the Baratheon children. They may have Gendry’s family name, but they are Starks too. Lyarra names hers Elenei, after the goddess of legend, and Cassana calls hers Winter. Jon is responsible for naming the fourth pup since her unborn child is unable, and he calls him North, so that his nephew can grow up remembering the lands of his mother’s family. As for Sandor, he christens his all black wolf Orys, after the man who founded House Baratheon.

As for Bran, they visit him quite frequently. Storm’s End and King’s Landing aren’t so far away. Bran names her Master of War, and Gendry watches the children while the council meets. Afterwards there is time for fun as well, and the children love watching the ships in the harbor, picking apples and oranges off of fruit trees, or listening to their uncle as he tells them stories of the distant past with incredible detail. Over the years, Arya begins to see more and more of the brother she once knew come to the surface, and when he smiles at her children, she does not doubt he loves them.

Today she is walking along the waterfront, nursing an infant Matthos, while Bran is being pushed in his wheelchair beside her. They stop at the top of the beach, Bran sending the servant away to give them some privacy, and she smiles watching the rest of her family. Jon has come down from the Wall for the first time in years, and he carries Cassie on his shoulders while Gendry holds Arry’s hand. They are showing Sandor how to skip rocks on the water while the wolves run and play, chasing each other. If Sansa were here, it would be perfect. Everyone she loves, happy and healthy…

Bran’s voice interrupts her daydreams. “Lyarra will make a good Lady of Storm’s End.” Her eldest daughter is currently clutching Gendry, laughing as he lifts her every time a wave comes in, with a chorus of “again, Papa, again”.

She looks at Bran, confused. “Lyarra is supposed to be heir to the North.” It was something she and Sansa had talked about, since Sansa has no children of her own. “And Sandor is supposed to have Storm’s End – ” She cuts herself off, a horrible thought coming to her. Her brother can see the future, and she worries about what fate he has seen for her firstborn. “No. Sandor, does – does he – ?”

Bran places his hand on top of her own. “No, dear sister, I did not mean anything like that. Your boy will live a long, full life. All of your children will.” She exhales at that. “I just meant that he will never be Lord of Storm’s End.”

Looking out, Sandor skips a rock on the sea perfectly, earning him heaps of praise from Jon and Gendry, while Lyarra splashes and Cassana tugs on Jon’s hair. Arya smiles to herself. _Family. Pack._

“No,” Bran continues. “Lyarra will be Lady of Storm’s End. Cassana shall take the Stark name and become Queen in the North after Sansa. I’m not sure what Matthos will be yet. He’s still young, and his future has not yet been determined. I think he may be a scholar though. Grand Maester, perhaps, or a councilor to one of his siblings…”

Arya smiles as he describes her children’s futures. No matter what they are, she just wants them to be happy. That is all she wishes for them. “And Sandor?” She asks. “If he won’t be Lord of Storm’s End, what will he be?”

King Bran the Broken turns his head, smiling as he watches her son skip rocks. “King of the Six Kingdoms.”

The words are a surprise to her. She stares at her ten-year-old for a long moment, trying to imagine that brave, black-haired boy as a tall, bearded adult man sitting on a throne, his wolf crouched at his feet, a crown on his head. Her father told her once that her sons would be princes. She never thought he would actually be right.

“Don’t worry.” Bran says. “He will be a good king. Sandor the Survivor, First of His Name.”

 _Sandor the Survivor._ She laughs, breathless. She thinks of how when Bran was named king, Tyrion Lannister said that stories were what brought people together, and Bran had the best story of them all. Well, her son has a story too.

Conceived the night the Army of the Dead came to Winterfell.

Quickening in his mother’s womb when she killed the Night King.

Survived the utter destruction of King’s Landing.

Crossed oceans before he was even born.

Son of a warrior woman from the North who saved humanity and a smith turned lord with a heart of gold.

Nephew to the King of the Six Kingdoms and the Queen in the North.

Born of a union between north and south.

A promise of hope, a dream of spring born in winter.

And though Arya Stark may be the one they call the Savior of Westeros, she knows without a doubt Sandor saved her.

She looks at her son again, her beautiful, smart, kind, brave son, who by all odds should never have lived to be born, but continues to do the impossible every single day. _Sandor the Survivor._ She thinks. Yes, it is a good name.


End file.
